


Devil Do

by DesdemonaKaylose



Category: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac
Genre: Diablo puts these fuckers on blast, Guro, Kink Meme, Metaphysics, Other, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 09:43:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14041479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesdemonaKaylose/pseuds/DesdemonaKaylose
Summary: 1) Johnny has a brief, temporary visit with the Devil.2) Mmy has his first taste of Hell.Each part is independent of the other. Part one is pretty tame, part two is a little wild.





	1. Vulcan

**Author's Note:**

> for our purposes we're going with the interpretation that Nny does experience attraction to some people or ideas and he Does Not Like This
> 
>  
> 
> [title song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CqnsONmEDBs)

Nny hits the oriental rug on the office floor spine-first and feels every rib in his chest shatter like ice on a trampoline.

The devil looks up from his desk, round gold specs perched on the boney ridge of his not-nose, and gives Nny a dour look. Nny wheezes and wriggles his toes uncomfortably as every little shard of loose bone in his chest cavity knits itself back together like a timelapse of autumn in reverse.

"That was quick," the devil says.

You’re telling _him_. He didn’t even make it all the way to the reception desk before St. Peter reeled back and walloped the Eject button, which was hurtful and uncalled for. Nny pokes the now-solid mass of his own chest, testing the bones. "What the fuck am I doing down here? Last I checked, I was just buying underwear at the Wall-to-Wallmart. I haven’t even tried to kill myself yet this month. I’m in the middle of a road trip."

The devil rests his cavernous cheek on the tip of one boney finger. It’s kind of delicate, in a condescending way. He flips through something on his desk, cursory, like he’d already read it at least once before Nny’s arrival. "Your friend terminated her custodial duties early," he said. "I gather they had to flush the whole cell and reboot elsewhere. It will only take a little while for reality to reorganize itself."

"Friend?" Nny says, running through the short list of friends he has. Most of them are dead. One of them is in his trunk. "The gas station attendant in Reno is a waste lock?"

"No, you addled buffoon. Your friend Devi. The artist." The devil leans back, flicks his fingers, and in the ripple of light across moving water, becomes the figure of a hard, beautiful woman. Nny loses his breath.

God she was beautiful, more even than he remembered, with her widow’s peak and her swept back hair and her nose—she called it the Delacruz nose, he remembers all at once, she told him that—

Nny launches himself across the floor, sweeping up the antique pen from the inkwell and driving it deep between the third and fourth ribs to where the unbeating heart of the abomination lay before him.

"Don’t you fucking dare!" he howls, wrenching the pen free with a _splurt_ of blood that drips like ink from the nib.

The devil, expressionless, touches his pale fingers to the curve of his breast and seals up the hole in the purple tanktop. He catches Nny’s fist mid-stab as Nny goes in for another shot at that filthy dead thing hiding underneath his friend’s stolen body. The grip is like stone. Nny wriggles against it, trying to get free and finish what he started.

Devi’s face looks him up and down, a bare smirk on the familiar lips. The eyes aren’t quite Devi’s eyes—too hollow and heavy, the green all washed out to grey. After a moment, the tap of a couple fingers on Nny’s thigh makes him aware of something he’d been too busy to notice previously. With his knee planted in the office chair, he’s very nearly sitting on the devil's lap.

"Don’t _touch_ me!" Nny snarls, and throws his whole weight into trying to pry his wrist free, forgetting the pen entirely in his efforts. The devil just keeps smirking at him. Nny plants a boot in the back of the chair and _pushes_.

"Heaven help us," the devil says, in his own voice, "it’s like having a rabid raccoon loose in the house."

He lets go, all at once, and Nny tumbles back into the hollow under the desk with a _whump_ that knocks his head hard against the wood panel. One eye squinted shut against the ringing in his ears, Nny glares up past the bottom of the desk drawer.

"Oh relax," the devil says, and crosses his legs. Devi’s boot buckles catch the light. "I was just trying to jog your memory. Your brain is swiss cheese at this point, and I don’t have time to play twenty questions with you."

"What are _you_ so busy with?" Nny demands.

The devil sighs, and all at once Devi’s hard lean shape twists into something else, something skeletal and inhuman, something eldritch and elegant. "I don’t think you even begin to grasp the extent of my responsibilities," he says, "the business I conduct, the endeavors I oversee—why just today I received the news that this whole blasted waste lock system was about to hard reboot with hardly a zzzzzzzzzzzz "

Nny watches his fingers as they flick through the air, gesticulating grandly, the tapering talon ends of each nail, shining beetle black and liquid white where the light touches them. Human fingers are stubby and soft and pink, but these are something else entirely. The knuckles almost resemble segments, clean and insectoid, something that could grasp and hold with all the clean disinterest of the bug become the collector.

The basso profundo roll of that voice echoes in the newly healed cage of Nny’s chest, like the drumbeat of a song you can feel through the walls of a club. He wonders what those horns feel like. He’s never touched real horns before.

He jolts at the snap of the devil’s fingers, whacking his head into the desk panel again.

"I really do not have time for all of _that_ ," the devil says, looking pointedly down at him.

"All of _what?"_ Nny says, "You were just monologuing at me! I wasn’t even doing anything!"

The look that the devil gives him—the whole slow pan down his person, the arching of a brow-bone—makes Nny feel like a bug on a pin, guilty and squirming.

"I know what you were thinking, you little weirdo," the devil says.

"Weirdo!" Nny snarls, lurching to his feet only to knock his head again on the bottom of the drawer. He clutches the new lump on his forehead, eyes watering. "I hate that! I hate that word! It’s not even a real word! You just added an O to the end of an adjective! I’m not gonna sit here and take this shit from you!"

"I’m sure you won’t," the devil says. He adjusts the tip of his high collar with one graceful finger. What the fuck, why are they so _pretty?_

Nny levers himself up from the floor. "I’ll teach you to read my mind!" he says, patting blindly across the table top for something with a pointy end.

"I wasn’t reading your mind," the devil says.

Nny pauses with his hand on some kind of glass statue. "You weren’t?"

"No," the devil says, "I didn’t need to. It’s obvious from your face. Your tongue was actually poking out."

Nny crosses his eyes. He is unable to successfully glare at his tongue, the treacherous piece of shit.

The devil lifts two fingers and pulls them down through the air, as if he’s marking some invisible screen. The luminous face of a clock unfurls beneath his touch. "Well," he says, "I suppose I have five minutes to spare. This is too rare of an opportunity to pass up."

Nny stops trying to twist his tongue free of his mouth. "Wha' is?" he says.

The devil reaches past him and pries the glass statue from his hand, and as he leans in Nny gets the full scenic view of the clavicle between the devil’s collar, the deep V and the winged arch, and he can’t remember the last time something so much bigger than himself was this close, he freezes under the sheer disorientation—

"You know, I can manipulate minds as well as read them," the devil says, as he slides the paperweight out of reach, "but I suppose that wouldn’t be very sporting of me. What do you think?"

"What?" Nny says, unable to look away from that inhuman clavicle.

"No," the devil says, after a moment, "I can see you’re very protective of your mind. Well who wouldn’t be, after what you’ve been through. Why don’t you take a seat."

Without really thinking about it, Nny takes a seat on the top of the desk. The devil searches for something in his expression or his limbs, carefully analytical, and Nny realizes he's feeling--off. He's never been this aware of his body, the pressure of his legs on the wood, the exact cast of dim light coming in through the vignette window. All the raging anxious backdrop of his thoughts is silent beneath the gentle hum of sensation arriving, clear and undistorted. 

"What is it you’re crusading after," the devil says, "all this emotionless insect stuff? You don’t really think you can cease to be a feeling being by _willing_ it, do you?"

"Why not?" Nny says, weirdly peaceful—the storm of anxious fidgeting his brain usually spends half its effort on all gone suddenly quiet. He’s only half listening, mentally poking at himself to see if the noise will start back up again under pressure.

"Humans," the devil sighs. "Ever arrogant, ever ungrateful."

The devil presses one knife-point nail into the thin fabric of Nny’s chest, right over the heart, and heat blooms there. Not just heat, but something—something unfamiliar, something that demands his attention like an animal winding against his legs.

"Do you know what insects _do?"_ the devil says, dipping down, so that he is almost nose to nonexistent nose with Nny.

The curl of his horns is hard to look away from. There’s something so aesthetically satisfying about them, their weight and arc.

"Insects live their lives in fear, my boy," the devil says. "Insects eat, flee, and if they manage to keep that up for long enough, insects mate and die."

The talon tips of the devil’s nails walk down Nny’s stomach, each stab of pressure blooming hot, almost burning. Is that pleasure? Is _that_ what that sensation is? Nny distrusts it. He tries to draw back, but for some reason his useless body doesn't respond to command.

"Would you like that?" the devil says. "To live without free will, to fuck and die in a gutter, to return to the mindless pursuit of satisfaction your ancestors dared to imagine themselves better than?"

One of the talons halts at Nny's belt, taps the buckle thoughtfully, and then the devil slides his cool, sinuous fingers against the skin, down past the belt, tight against the body. Nny is present in his body but he can't _move_ it, he can feel every fucking thing but he can't do anything about it. Every nerve down the soft meat of his stomach gluts itself in pleasure, every base neuron revels in it.

The weak and animal part of him, the dumb flesh, wakes against his thigh. He chokes on a noise of fury, unable to open his mouth and let it out.

"The world is perfect," the devil tells him, "in all of its hunger and violence. Things like you, who carelessly misunderstand it--who dare to think themselves above it--are the slime across the canvas of a Rembrant."

The maddening thing is that all the devil is touching is the soft skin stretched over Nny's pelvis, just skin like any other skin, but his body almost glows with hunger. He's three mile island, he's Chernobyl, he's radioactive with the waste material that is this hunger. He is small and he wants to be _smaller_ , to be overpowered and held still with those _fucking beautiful monstrous fingers._

"What will you do next?" the devil says. "You can tear off the pieces that betray you, but you can't tear out the part that wants to be betrayed. If you want, if you were born to want, your wanting will never cease."

Nny strains. He's breathing hard through his clenched teeth, and if he could tear himself open and gut himself of this pleasure he would do it with his own nails, drag free the whole apparatus. He doesn't want to feel this, to feel anything-

The devil leans in close, the sharp jut of a cheekbone brushing Nny's ear. All down the length of his neck where the hair is standing on end, his flesh screams, begging like a two dollar harlot for anything, for everything. Damn the part of him that swell and aches, urgent against his thigh.

"Free will is wasted on a thing like you," the devil says, and withdraws his fingers from the taut pane of skin. The nerves he leaves there go cold and whine with desire.

An alarm chimes, somewhere beyond the office, and the devil looks past him for a moment. "Well," he says. "That was faster than I expected."

Reality shudders, doubles, tears out from under him. The over-warm dimness of the office is spun away, leaving only Nny and the void, and the crawling of his phantom flesh as he hurtles down towards the body that waits for him, presumably where he left it in the clothing department of a Wall-to-Wallmart. Nothingness swallows him.

Even in the formless void, the screaming hunger remains. 


	2. Vile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mmy has his first taste of Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there were two very similar prompts so I did both of them, this one gets a little bloody

So first thing: the devil is really tall. And he doesn’t look much like the album covers Mmy is familiar with, but he  _does_  have the horns and those are pretty cool. He’s kinda got a weird…. muppet…. scifi thing going on. He’s rocking it though. 

“Sweet digs you got down here,” Mmy says, flipping up the current page of the wall calendar to find yet more playful kittens looking soulfully at the camera. It’s adorable. From the flaming heart of Pandemonuim, below the office window, something screams like it’s trying to hack up a lung. 

“Needs more spikes though,” he adds, eyeing the round edge of the ceiling. Honestly it kind of looks like the whitehouse caught on fire and never went out in here. “Maybe teeth. You seem like a teeth kinda guy.”

In a swirl of his long coat, like fabric moving under water, the devil takes a seat at his desk. A sheaf of papers levitate up and flip open in front of him, stopping on the final page. “Jimmy Eureeds,” he says, as the last page hovers before him. 

Mmy grins. “That’s me,” he says, “and let me just say, it’s a real honor to meet you in the flesh. Bone? The not flesh. My mom always said I’d end up here. But I don’t go by that so much anymore. Call me Mmy.”

The devil looks over the top of the gently floating paper. “Really,” he says. “After everything that happened in your final moments?”

Mmy keeps grinning, although in his ears he’s hearing the sick crack and splatter of his own ribs under sledgehammer. “We just got off on the wrong foot,” he says. “He’ll come around.”

The sheaf of papers settles down precisely on top of the stack below it, in the box that says ACQUISITIONS. The reason Mmy gets the feeling the devil’s a teeth-kinda-guy is because the high collar of his suit is lined with the unmistakable curved shape of molars, as if his collar was a mouth opening up to reveal his sinuous neck like a tongue. It’s real freaky. 

“In what sense,” the devil says, “do you expect Johnny C. to… ‘come around’?”

Mmy rips off the current page of the Cat A Day day-calendar and shoves it in his pocket. He loves those little gremlin looking sphinx motherfuckers.

“He’s gotta die someday, right?” Mmy says. “I’ll work on my pitch and give it another shot when he croaks. I guess it _could_ be a while, I mean, he’s pretty badass. You’d need serious firepower. A shootout with the cops is a pretty good way to go.”

“You’re taking this all in very good humor,” the devil remarks, “considering how historically vile your retributions for comparatively petty slights have been.”

Mmy is still smiling, but now he can feel his eyes squinting up, not quite on the same page as his mouth. “Nny’s not like those other people,” he says.

“No?” the devil says.

“No,” Mmy says. “Nny’s—he doesn’t hurt people the way—he’s pure, it’s purifying—”

Mmy finds his hand clutching at his sternum, at the fabric of his shirt, nails digging into skin that he has seen split open and peeled apart over him. He has seen the frantic wet pumping of his own organs below his skin.

“I did something wrong,” he says, “I made him mad, but it’s okay—it’ll be okay, because he bled it out of me, I’ll do better next time—”

“Young man,” the devil says, “you would do well to disabuse yourself of the notion that there is any redemptive quality to the things Johnny C. does. All you will find below the surface of that self-important aggrandizement is nonsense. Chaos and whimsy.”

“That’s not true!” Mmy snaps, “He’s a visionary! He’s a macabre genius!”

The devil considers him for a moment. He shifts, his whole towering shape shifts as if it’s folding down into itself, as he stands from his chair. The thorn twists of his shoulders become arms, the ivory skull becomes washed out brown flesh, and all at once Mmy is looking at the heart-stopping silhouette of Nny. Only it’s not Nny, not quite like it was when he looked up into that face haloed against the dim light of the basement, trembling, blood-flecked and wrathful.

This is Nny as Mmy imagined him—tall, poised, pale and confident. The cloven boots click against the floor as he comes around the desk, gloved fingers trailing metal tips over the edge of outboxes and inboxes, sparking like a blade on a whetstone. Mmy swallows.

“A genius, you say?”

Mmy watches Nny come towards him, step by step, frozen like a deer in the headlights. Each step scrapes and swerves, catlike, the hips sway—Mmy thinks of black widows, for some reason, the way their beautiful legs move in an endless smooth rhythm. He’s always been scared as hell of spiders, a fact he does not like to publicize, but the way they move? It makes a shiver run up his spine.

“Is there genius in indiscriminate slaughter?” the devil asks him.

“It’s not-” Mmy says, “it’s not indiscriminate. He hurts the people who deserve it. The kinds of people who made us… what we are…”

He doesn’t realize he’s been moving until his back thumps up against the wall. The devil is still coming towards him, hands folded behind his back, hollow unearthly eyes glowing in the cavern of Nny’s sunken sockets.

“Foolish Persephone,” the devil says, “you think you can marry Death and survive?”

“Uh,” Mmy says. His hands are sweating. He feels like he did in ninth grade when he tried to ask Clarissa Moore to Homecoming, right before she said she’d never be caught dead with white trash like him, right before he threw up on his shoes in the middle of the first floor hallway.

The devil stops just a foot in front of him, head cocked the slightest bit, watching. Mmy can’t remember the last time someone looked down at him _physically_ , and it gets him kind of hot, to be honest.

“That’s pitiful,” the devil says. “I’ve seen starving dogs with more dignity than you, young man.”

Mmy licks his lips. He knows that’s not _really_ Nny, but it’s hard to totally convince himself of that fact when the thing standing a foot away from him looks exactly like every self-indulgent fantasy of blood-soaked vindication he’s ever had. If it would just reach out and touch him, stroke his cheek, tell him what wonderful work he’s done—

“My my,” the devil says. “I am _ever_ astounded by the paltry price for which humans are willing to sell their souls. After all this time you’d think I would learn to expect it.”

“Don’t you, uh,” Mmy says, “don’t you already own my whole. Thing?”

“Of course,” the devil says. “Entirely. I was just thinking of how many men walk about up there, unaware of the incredible power they have been willingly offered. If he asked you to, would you let him open you up again?”

“Yeah,” Mmy says, immediately, because he would have done it the first time if Nny had just asked. If he’d been asked to bleed, he would have bled happily. 

“Would you do it to yourself,” the devil says, “if he asked you to?”

“Y, yeah,” Mmy says.

The devil reaches for him, the silver tips of his wicked gloves flashing, and hooks a finger under the collar of Mmy’s t-shirt. “Do it then,” he says, and his voice is Nny’s voice, the blistering dismissal, the thorny edges, a perfect imitation.

Fingers shaking, Mmy lifts a hand. He’s on autopilot, he’s not thinking about anything except the sound of Nny’ voice, the last voice on earth that he ever heard, looping itself like a thorny vine around his windpipe.

He presses his palm against his stomach and pushes it up under his shirt, up his chest until the tip of his finger meets the tip of Nny’s claw. One shirt and a glove, that’s what stands between skin and skin. 

His own nails are sharp. He likes the way they look when they’re grown out, when he can paint them. He digs them into the delicate skin over his sternum, and with a pop that squeals pain all up his throat and down his ribs, he breaks it open. He breathes hard. Blood wells up around his fingers.

“Is that all you can do?” Nny says, with a dismissive flick of a glance down the length of Mmy.

“No,” Mmy says, “no, I can—hold on, I can do it—”

He clenches his fingers under his skin and rips them down, scraping the arc of his sternum, tearing the flesh with a crackle and pop almost like elastic breaking. He clutches at the wall behind him. It’s agony, but he’s lived it once before, he can survive it again, he can do it. The skin over his stomach parts more easily, he doesn’t have to fight so hard against himself. His fingers don’t catch and drag as bad, but they push in to the knuckle as his hand shakes. 

When he finally reaches the hard square of his belt buckle, he withdraws his dripping hand. Blood is smeared down the fingertips to the knuckle like cherry flavored latex, dripping in fat trails down to his wrist. Air drags through his open mouth and into his dry throat as he heaves for breath.

Nny hums, thoughtfully. 

Mmy’s vision all but goes spotted and starry as Nny reaches past Mmy’s hand and under his shirt, following the same path, moving underneath the cloth like a parasite beneath skin. He can feel those whetstone sparks as wicked fingertips scrape up his stomach. This is—this is a lot for a guy to process—

Nny twists his wrist, and as if he were intertwining his hand with another, he pushes his fingers between the gaps in Mmy’s ribcage. Mmy whimpers and flattens his hands against the walls, trying to hold still. The grip on him feels like—he feels like an object, a cup or a table knife, and this is—this is what he’s always wanted, to be taken up and wielded like a weapon. To be held and kept, to be sharpened, to be useful.

“Please,” he says, just barely able to make it come out.

“Please _what?”_ Nny says, disinterested and callous. His fingers inside of Mmy slowly close, tearing the soft meat in their path.

Mmy makes a choking noise, a wet noise, as one of those metal tips lacerates his lung.

“Is this Hell for you,” Nny muses, “or is this Heaven?”

It’s both, it’s everything, it’s the holy visitation of wrath and love, it’s too much for the stuff of human souls to hold without crumbling to dust. Mmy has never been religious but he is living it now, he is having it forced into him as everything he is struggles to accommodate the alien shape of it, sublime and ecstatic and terrible.

He moans.

“Your hell,” Nny says, as Mmy’s bones creak under his grip, “will be to reach for this moment over and over again, until the seas cover the mountains and the sun swallows the Earth, and to never again feel relief.”

Mmy spits up blood, unable to look away from the hollow eyes that burn into him, unblinking, glowing with a light that existed before light, before the stars in the darkness, and he is afraid.

“Enjoy your stay,” the devil says, in Nny’s voice. “It’s been a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”


End file.
